CHAPTER X.
THE EFFECTS OF MISS TODD'S PICNIC.
Sir Lionel did not participate violently either in his son's disgustat the falsehood of that holy sepulchre church, nor in his enthusiasmas to the Mount of Olives. In the former, he walked about as he haddone in many other foreign churches, looked a little to the right anda little to the left, observed that the roof seemed to be rather outof order, declined entering the sanctum sanctorum, and then askedwhether there was anything more to be seen. He did not care, he said,about going upstairs into the gallery; and when George suggestedthat he should descend into the Armenian chapel, he observed that itappeared to be very dark and very crowded. He looked at the Turkishjanitors without dismay, and could not at all understand why Georgeshould not approve of them.
He was equally cold and equally complaisant on the Mount of Olives.He would willingly have avoided the ascent could he have done sowithout displeasing his son; but George made a point of it. A donkeywas therefore got for him, and he rode up.
"Ah! yes," said he, "a very clear view of the city; oh, that wasSolomon's temple, was it? And now they have a mosque there, havethey? Ah! perhaps the Brahmins will have a turn at it before theworld is done. It's a barren sort of hill after all, is it not?"
And then George tried very much in vain to make his father understandwhy he wished to go into the church.
"By-the-by," said Sir Lionel--they were then sitting exactly on thespot where George had placed himself before, when he made that grandresolve to give up everything belonging to this world for the sakeof being one of Christ's shepherds--"by-the-by, George, for heaven'ssake don't throw your uncle over in choosing a profession. Icertainly should be sorry to see you become an attorney."
"I have never thought of it for a moment," said George.
"Because, with your abilities, and at any rate with your chance ofmoney, I think you would be very much thrown away; but, consideringhis circumstances and yours, were I you, I would really submit almostto anything."
"I will not at any rate submit to that," said George, not very wellable to reconcile his father's tone to the spot on which they weresitting.
"Well, it's your own affair, my boy. I have no right to interfere,and shall not attempt to do so; but of course I must be anxious. Ifyou did go into the church, I suppose he'd buy a living for you?"
"Certainly not; I should take a college living."
"At your age any that you could get would be very small. Ah, George!if I could only put an old head upon young shoulders, what a hand ofcards you would have to play! That old man could leave you half amillion of money!"
This was certainly not the object with which the son had ascended themount, and he did not use much eloquence to induce his father toremain long in the place. Sir Lionel got again on his donkey, andthey returned to Jerusalem; nor did George ever again talk to himabout the Mount of Olives.
And he was not very much more successful with another friend intowhose mind he endeavoured to inculcate his own high feelings. He gotMiss Baker up to his favourite seat, and with her Miss Waddington;and then, before he had left Jerusalem, he succeeded in inducing theyounger lady to ramble thither with him alone.
"I do not know that I think so highly of the church as you do," saidCaroline. "As far as I have seen them, I cannot find that clergymenare more holy than other men; and yet surely they ought to be so."
"At any rate, there is more scope for holiness if a man have itin him to be holy. The heart of a clergyman is more likely to besoftened than that of a barrister or an attorney."
"I don't exactly know what you mean by heart-softening, Mr. Bertram."
"I mean--" said Bertram, and then he paused; he was not quite able,with the words at his command, to explain to this girl what it wasthat he did mean, nor was he sure that she would appreciate him ifhe did do so; and, fond as he still was of his idea of a holy life,perhaps at this moment he was fonder still of her.
"I think that a man should do the best he can for himself in aprofession. You have a noble position within your grasp, and if Iwere you, I certainly would not bury myself in a country parsonage."
What this girl of twenty said to him had much more weight than thetime-honoured precepts of his father; and yet both, doubtless, hadtheir weight. Each blow told somewhat; and the seed too had been sownupon very stony ground.
They sat there some three or four minutes in silence. Bertram waslooking over to Mount Moriah, imaging to himself the spot wherethe tables of the money-changers had been overturned, while MissWaddington was gazing at the setting sun. She had an eye to seematerial beauty, and a taste to love it; but it was not given to herto look back and feel those things as to which her lover would fainhave spoken to her. The temple in which Jesus had taught was nothingto her.
Yes, he was her lover now, though he had never spoken to her of love,had never acknowledged to himself that he did love her--as so fewmen ever do acknowledge till the words that they have said make itnecessary that they should ask themselves whether those words aretrue. They sat there for some minutes in silence, but not as loverssit. The distance between them was safe and respectful. Bertram wasstretched upon the ground, with his eyes fixed, not upon her, but onthe city opposite; and she sat demurely on a rock, shading herselfwith her parasol.
"I suppose nothing would induce you to marry a clergyman?" said he atlast.
"Why should you suppose that, Mr. Bertram?"
"At any rate, not the parson of a country parish. I am led to supposeit by what you said to me yourself just now."
"I was speaking of you, and not of myself. I say that you have anoble career open to you, and I do not look on the ordinary life ofa country parson as a noble career. For myself, I do not see anynobility in store. I do not know that there is any fate more probablefor myself than that of becoming a respectable vicaress."
"And why may not a vicar's career be noble? Is it not as noble tohave to deal with the soul as with the body?"
"I judge by what I see. They are generally fond of eating, verycautious about their money, untidy in their own houses, and apt to goto sleep after dinner."
George turned upon the grass, and for a moment or two ceased to lookacross into the city. He had not strength of character to laugh ather description and yet to be unmoved by it. He must either resentwhat she said, or laugh and be ruled by it. He must either tell herthat she knew nothing of a clergyman's dearest hopes, or else he mustyield to the contempt which her words implied.
"And could you love, honour, and obey such a man as that, yourself,Miss Waddington?" he said at last.
"I suppose such men do have wives who love, honour, and obey them;either who do or do not. I dare say I should do much the same asothers."
"You speak of my future, Miss Waddington, as though it were a subjectof interest; but you seem to think nothing of your own."
"It is useless for a woman to think of her future; she can do solittle towards planning it, or bringing about her plans. Besides, Ihave no right to count on myself as anything out of the ordinary runof women; I have taken no double-first degree in anything."
"A double-first is no sign of a true heart or true spirit. Many a manborn to grovel has taken a double-first."
"I don't perhaps know what you mean by grovelling, Mr. Bertram. Idon't like grovellers myself. I like men who can keep their headsup--who, once having them above the water, will never allow them tosink. Some men in every age do win distinction and wealth and highplace. These are not grovellers. If I were you I would be one ofthem."
"You would not become a clergyman?"
"Certainly not; no more than I would be a shoemaker."
"Miss Waddington!"
"Well; and what of Miss Waddington? Look at the clergymen thatyou know; do they never grovel? You know Mr. Wilkinson; he is anexcellent man, I am sure, but is he conspicuous for highmindedness,for truth and spirit?" It must be remembered that the elder Mr.Wilkinson was at this time still living. "Are they generally men ofwide views and enlightened princ
iples? I do not mean to liken themto shoemakers; but were I you, I should think of the one business assoon as the other."
"And in my place, what profession would you choose?"
"Ah, that I cannot say. I do not know your circumstances."
"I must earn my bread, like other sons of Adam."
"Well, earn it then in such manner that the eyes of the world shallbe upon you; that men and women shall talk of you, and newspapershave your name in their columns. Whatever your profession, let it bea wakeful one; not one that you can follow half asleep."
Again he paused for awhile, and again sat looking at the rock of thetemple. Still he thought of the tables of the money-changers, andthe insufficiency of him who had given as much as half to the poor.But even while so thinking, he was tempted to give less than halfhimself, to set up on his own account a money-changing table in hisown temple. He would fain have worshipped at the two shrines togetherhad he been able. But he was not able; so he fell down before that ofMammon.
"You can talk to me in this way, urge me to be ambitious, and yetconfess that you could give yourself to one of those drones of whomyou speak with such scorn."
"I speak of no one with scorn; and I am not urging you; and atpresent am not talking of giving myself to any one. You ask as to thepossibility of my ever marrying a clergyman; I say that it is verypossible that I may do so some day."
"Miss Waddington," said George; and now he had turned his faceabsolutely from the city, and was looking upwards to the hill;upwards, full into the beauty of her countenance. "Miss Waddington!"
"Well, Mr. Bertram?"
"You speak of me as though I were a being high in the scale ofhumanity--"
"And so I think of you."
"Listen for a moment--and of yourself as one comparatively low."
"No, no, not low; I have too much pride for that; much lower thanyou, certainly, for I have given no proofs of genius."
"Well--lower than me. That is what you have said, and I do notbelieve that you would say so falsely. You would not descend toflatter me?"
"Certainly not; but--"
"Believe equally of me that I would not flatter you. I have told youno falsehood as yet, and I have a right to claim your belief. As youlook on me, so do I on you. I look up to you as one whose destinymust be high. To me there is that about you which forbids me to thinkthat your path in the world can ever be other than conspicuous. Yourhusband, at least, will have to live before the world."
"I shall not have the slightest objection to his doing so; but that,I think, will depend a great deal more on him than on me."
Bertram was very anxious to say something which might tend towardsthe commingling of his destiny with hers. He was hardly yet preparedto swear that he loved her, and to ask her in good set terms to behis wife. But he did not like to leave her without learning whetherhe had at all touched her heart. He was fully sure now that his ownwas not whole.
"Come, Mr. Bertram," said she; "look at the sun, how nearly it isgone. And you know we have no twilight here. Let us go down; my auntwill think that we are lost."
"One minute, Miss Waddington; one minute, and then we will go.Miss Waddington--if you care enough for me to bid me take up anyprofession, follow any pursuit, I will obey you. You shall choose forme, if you will."
She blushed, not deeply, but with a colour sufficiently heightenedto make it visible to him, and with a tingling warmth which madeher conscious of it herself. She would have given much to keep hercountenance, and yet the blush became her greatly. It took away fromthe premature firmness of her womanly look, and gave her for themoment something of the weakness natural to her age.
"You know that is nonsense: on such a subject you must of coursechoose for yourself."
Bertram was standing in the path before her, and she could not wellgo on till he had made way for her. "No," said he; "thinking as I doof you, feeling as I do regarding you, it is not nonsense. It wouldbe absolute nonsense if I said so to your aunt, or to Mrs. Hunter, orto Miss Jones. I could not be guided by a person who was indifferentto me. But in this matter I will be guided by you if you will consentto guide me."
"Of course I shall do no such thing."
"You have no personal wish, then, for my welfare?"
"Yes, I have. Your uncle is my guardian, and I may therefore beallowed to look upon you as a friend of a longer standing than merelyof yesterday. I do regard you as a friend, and shall be glad of yoursuccess." Here she paused, and they walked on a few steps together insilence; and then she added, becoming still redder as she did so, butnow managing to hide her face from her companion, "Were I to answeryou in the way that you pretend to wish, I should affect either lessfriendship than I feel, or much more."
"Much more!" said Bertram, with a shade of despondency in his tone.
"Yes, much more, Mr. Bertram. Why, what would you have me say?"
"Ah me! I hardly know. Nothing--nothing--I would have you saynothing. You are quite right to say nothing." And then he walkedon again for a hundred yards in silence. "Nothing, Miss Waddington,nothing; unless, indeed--"
"Mr. Bertram;" and as she spoke she put out her hand and gentlytouched his arm. "Mr. Bertram, stop yourself; think, at any rate,of what you are going to say. It is a pity when such as you speakfoolishly." It was singular to see how much more composed she wasthan he; how much more able to manage the occasion--and yet herfeelings were strong too.
"Nothing; I would have you say nothing--nothing, unless this: thatwhatever my destiny may be, you will share it with me."
As he spoke he did not look towards her, but straight before him downthe path. He did not sigh, nor look soft. There was indeed not muchcapability for soft looks in his square and strongly-featured face.He frowned rather, set his teeth together, and walked on faster thanbefore. Caroline did not answer him immediately; and then he repeatedhis words. "I do not care for you to say anything now, unless you cansay this--that whatever your lot may be, I may share it; whatevermine, that you will share it."
"Mr. Bertram."
"Well--"
"Now you have spoken foolishly. Do you not know that you have spokenfoolishly?"
"I have spoken truly. Do you speak as truly. You should be as muchabove false girlish petty scruples, as you will be and are abovefalsehood of another kind. You will never tell a man that you lovehim if you do not."
"No; certainly, I never will."
"And do not deny it if it be the truth."
"But it is not the truth. How long have we known each other, Mr.Bertram?"
"Counting by days and hours, some fortnight. But what does thatsignify? You do not love a man the better always, the longer you knowhim. Of you, I discern that there is that in you I can love, thatwould make me happy. I have talent, some sort of talent at least. Youhave a spirit which would force me to use it. I will not pretend tosay that I am suited for you. You must judge that. But I know thatyou are suited for me. Now I will take any answer you will give me."
To tell the truth, Miss Waddington hardly knew what answer to givehim. He was one, it seemed, who, having spoken with decision himself,would take any answer as decisive. He was one not to be tamperedwith, and one also hardly to be rejected without consideration; andcertainly not so to be accepted. She had liked him much--very much,considering the little she had known of him. She had even askedherself, half playfully, whether it were not possible that she mightlearn to love him. He was a gentleman, and that with her was much.He was a man of talent, and that with her was more. He was one whosecharacter and mode of thought she could respect. He was a man whomany woman might probably be able to respect. But Caroline Waddingtonwanted much more than this in her future lord. She could talkpleasantly of the probability of her marrying a country parson; butshe had, in truth, a much wider ambition for herself. She would nevermarry--such was the creed which was to govern her own life--withoutlove; but she would not allow herself to love where love wouldinterfere with her high hopes. In her catalogue of human blisseslove in a cottage was not entered
. She was not avaricious; she didnot look to money as the summum bonum;--certainly not to marry formoney's sake. But she knew that no figure in the world could be madewithout means. Her own fortune was small, and she did not even rateher beauty high. Her birth was the birth of a lady, but that wasall; her talents had never been tried, but she thought of them moreindifferently than they deserved. She felt, therefore, that she hadno just ground to hope for much; but she was determined that no follyon her own part should rob her of any chance that fortune mightvouchsafe to her.
Under such circumstances what answer should she make to Bertram? Herheart would have bid her not reject him, but she was fearful of herown heart. She dreaded lest she should be betrayed into sacrificingherself to love. Ought prudence now to step in and bid her dismiss asuitor whose youth had as yet achieved nothing, whose own means werevery small, with whom, if he were accepted, her marriage must bepostponed; who, however, was of great talent, who gave such promiseof future distinction? Bertram, when he made his offer, made it froma full heart; but Caroline was able to turn these matters in her mindbefore she answered him.
She will be called cold-hearted, mercenary, and unfeminine. But whena young girl throws prudence to the winds, and allows herself to lovewhere there is nothing to live on, what then is she called? It seemsto me that it is sometimes very hard for young girls to be in theright. They certainly should not be mercenary; they certainly shouldnot marry paupers; they certainly should not allow themselves tobecome old maids. They should not encumber themselves with early,hopeless loves; nor should they callously resolve to care for nothingbut a good income and a good house. There should be some handbookof love, to tell young ladies when they may give way to it withoutcensure. As regards our heroine, however, she probably wanted no suchhandbook. "Now I will take any answer you will give me." Bertram,when he had said that, remained silent, awaiting her reply.
"Mr. Bertram," she said at last, "I think that you have spokenunwisely; let us agree to forget it. What you have said has come fromimpulse rather than judgment."
"Not so, Miss Waddington. I cannot forget it; nor can you. I wouldnot have it again unsaid if I could. When I once learned that I lovedyou, it became natural to me to tell you so."
"Such quick speaking is not perhaps natural to me. But as you demandan immediate answer, I must give you one. I have had much pleasure inyour society, but I have never thought of loving you. Nor can I loveyou without thinking of it."
It would be hard to say what answer Bertram expected; indeed, he hadno expectations. He had had no idea of making this offer when hewalked up the hill with her. His heart was then turned rather toworship at that other shrine: it had been her own words, her owneloquence in favour of the world's greatness, that had drawn him on.He had previously filled his mind with no expectation; but he hadfelt an intense desire for success when once he had committed himselfto his offer.
And now, as he walked down beside her, he hardly knew what to makeof her answer. A man, if he be not absolutely rejected, is generallyinclined to think that any answer from a lady may be taken as havingin it some glimmer of favour. And ladies know this so well, thatthey almost regard any reply on their own part, short of an absoluterefusal, as an acceptance. If a lady bids a gentleman wait awhilefor his answer, he thinks himself quite justified in letting allthe world know that she is his own. We all know what a reference toa parent's judgment means. A lady must be very decisive--very, ifshe means to have her "no" taken at its full meaning. Now CarolineWaddington had not been very decisive.
Whatever Bertram's thoughts or his hopes might be, he said nothingmore on the present occasion. He walked silently down the hill by herside, somewhat moody-looking, but yet not with the hang-dog aspectof a rejected suitor. There was a fire in his eyes and a play uponhis countenance which did not tell of hope altogether extinguished.Before they were at the foot of the hill, he had resolved that hewould have Caroline Waddington for his wife, let the difficulties inhis way be what they might. But then he was ever so keen to resolve;so often beaten from his resolutions!
And Caroline also walked silently down the hill. She knew that shehad given an ambiguous answer, and was content to let it remain so.In the silence of her chamber, she would think over this thing andmake her calculations. She would inquire into her own mind, and learnwhether she could afford to love this man whom she could not butacknowledge to be so loveable. As for asking any one else, seekingcounsel in the matter from her aunt, that never for a momentsuggested itself to Caroline Waddington.
They had left Miss Baker and Miss Todd at the bottom of the hill. Itwas a beautiful evening, and those ladies had consented to sit downand rest there while the more enthusiastic and young lovers of themount ascended to the spot of which Bertram was so fond. But ingiving that consent, they had hardly expected that such encroachmentwould be made on their good-nature. When Caroline and Bertram againfound them, the daylight had almost waned away.
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